


The Last Night of the World

by satin_doll



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bittersweet?, F/M, FEELS and more FEELS, Hurt/Comfort, Sad Sherlock, Separation, Sex, Sexual Tension, Sherlock is going to die, Sherlolly - Freeform, angst more angst on top of angst, devastated Molly, mollock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 10:22:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6234871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satin_doll/pseuds/satin_doll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night before it ends. Post HLV, pre TAB.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Night of the World

**Author's Note:**

> This came in a sudden rush, all at once. Forgive me, it is not beta'ed. I own nothing, all mistakes are my own.

_If this was the last night of the world_  
_What would I do?_  
_What would I do that was different?_  
_Unless it was champagne with you._

******

Anthea’s voice is somewhat breathless, from running, a slight anxiety. “Sir? He’s gone.”

Mycroft stares out the window. Calm. Unruffled. “I know.”

******

He threads his way through the crowd on the street, walking normally. No need to run. Heart thuds. Electric wires through the veins. The usual split, inside/outside. The way it always is. No one knows. No one can tell.

Turn this way, stop. Stare through a shop window. People notice: this tall, mysterious man in the dark billowing coat, Byronic curls nudged gently in the slight breeze, ascetic, poetic, features a sculptor’s dream. How could they not notice? He knows they see him. Doesn’t matter. _It’s never mattered._

Stuff hands in pockets. Walk on, steady. Don’t hurry. _Act as if._

He stops suddenly, overwhelmed. Eyes close. Breathe. _Breathe_. Gulping air, drowning. Move on. _Act as if_. Keep moving.

The crowd thins. His pace quickens. No taxi. Not this time. He is nearly running by the time he reaches the street.

Stop.

Control.

Wait.

Breathe.

_Focus._

Storm of thoughts, ideas, concepts, _memories_. Focus. Narrow it down. One thing matters. Only one.

No fear. Fear is a stranger, rarely glimpsed in the rush towards clarity. There’s no fear in certainty. Face the inevitable, meet the adversary head on. Fear, like caring, is not an asset.

Caring. No. This is not caring. Something else, something Other.

This is need. Desperate, primal. Deeper than any simple brain chemical mix. Cellular. Need.

“ _What do you need?”_ The memory is anguish, rises from a place he never dares to touch. It is acid on flesh, a sharper burning than fire.

So much. So much. How is it done? How does one ever…Stop. Focus. Move.

The last steps, staggering relief and anxious rush. Here. Here is where it will all be over. Here is where I will be…

  
What? Transfigured? Redeemed? Forgiven? Or not. Whatever. It will end, finally, here.

Hesitation. What, now? Doubts? What if. No. Can’t go there. Not now, it’s too late…

 _Too late._ There. That’s the wall, the last obstacle. _Face it._ The dread adversary, the final conflict.

So little time left, and now, the ugly doubt, the horrendous claxon sounds.

Silent laugh. His hands shake.

******

The knock reverberates like thunder, rolling, rolling. Breathe. It’s almost over. One way or the other, it’s ended. _Act as if._

The wait is endless, seconds, minutes, days. The anxiety scalds, shameful. Not afraid, no, never afraid…just…

The door opens and he startles, steps back. Her mouth opens, closes again as she takes him in, and she simply steps aside. The flood of relief makes him giddy, slows his movements. Everything is at a remove, distant, unreal.

No. She is real. She is solid, grounded, certain. Real.

She closes the door, faces him silently. She sees me, as always, he thinks, and feels the tension break inside him, feels the spring relax, uncoil. His lightning rod, his touchstone, his solution: she is the answer.

For perhaps the first time in his life, words utterly fail him. Even saying her name is beyond him. He stares helplessly, silently begging, _please, please, help me_

And she does. Without a word, she steps forward, raises her hand, draws a finger gently down his cheek, then enfolds him, wrapping him in her warmth, sweet sun over his desolate aching cold. He bows his head down to hers, rests his cheek against the silky hair, and cries.

*******

She finally leads him inside, pulls his coat from his shoulders. He lets her tend him like a child, watches her every move, breath still ragged. He wonders again how people stand this, this deluge of intensity, this tumult of feeling, everything, every day of their lives. How does _she_ stand it?

She places tea in front of him (when did she make tea?), watching, waiting. Wasting time, he thinks, and a rush of need trembles his hands, spills the tea. She fetches a cloth, wipes the drips away, drying his hands…the touch of her skin on his awakens him, brings him back into himself. He suddenly stops her, catches her hand in one of his, slowly reaches the other to her cheek. Her eyes widen slightly, there is sudden small tension in her, slight suspicion of this personal gesture. A trickle of sadness inside him threatens to widen into a stream at the sight. _No. No. Don’t pull away…_

“Molly.” His voice is dry, dusty, as though from long disuse. He tries again.

“Molly.” Just her name. It’s all he can manage. But it’s enough.

She senses his need, and as always, it floods through her with an insane urgency. His need. It becomes her sole focus, her reason for being. _What do you need?_  
  
No words this time. It goes without saying. For all the years behind them, the conflict, abuse, manipulations, desperate longing, distancing, attraction, disgust, closeness, joy and pain, everything leads to these words, the crystallization of this moment.

He sees it all going wrong, grabs her hands tightly, shakes his head, No, no. Not that.

She still watches him, frowning slightly, something is wrong, terribly wrong…fear clenches her gut.

“What’s happened?” Her voice quavers. She tries to pull away from him, tries to stand and he clutches her hands tighter, pulls her down to him. She is trembing.

“Molly. Listen. Please. There’s not much time.” He looses her hands, cups her face, holds her gaze. The ugency in his voice keeps her still. “There’s so much to say, far too much, I’ll never be able to say it. Please. Just listen…” and he spills the story, pours it out, as much as he can say in just those few minutes, telling her he is going to die. So little time left. So little.

She listens. Tears fill her eyes, her lips tremble in an effort to keep from sobbing. He feels her wanting to pull away, feels her need to refuse it, to run, to seek some shelter of denial against it all. He _feels_ her. It breaks him open, pains him in a way he’s never experienced, and his breath deserts him, his voice falters. He pulls her against him, hard, traps her there with his arms, that horrific need overtaking, surpassing all else. He holds her until her trembling eases slightly, then loosens his hold, but keeps her close, hands still touching, stroking, trying to soothe. She sniffs, trembles, is still.

Where does he start? There’s no time, no possible way to explain himself, the him that she’s known all these years. The point is long past for apologies, asking forgiveness, giving reasons. Behavior doesn’t always make the truth. What she’s seen, and dealt with, is only the surface. He senses she somehow knows this, understands it innately, but his need, his enormous, encompassing, immediate need is to explain it to - and forgive - himself.

“Do you hate me?” He startles himself with the question. Not what he thought he was going to say.

“H-hate you? No! Of course not! How could…w-why would I h-hate you?” He sees the shock, the hurt in her eyes, instantly regrets the words.

“Sorry. That’s not…” He searches, starts again. “Molly, it’s too late to try and explain…so many years of what now looks like insanity, at least to me…” He frowns, rushes on. “What I’m trying to say is that so much of it wasn’t real, wasn’t what I wanted, not really, but we go on for so long in a certain way and it just becomes so easy to keep it up and never get to the truth, and…” the words keep rushing, streaming, a dammed up wall of them bursting out of his head, “…I’m so sorry, so so sorry, I never told you anything, never explained what I wanted, I didn’t know how and it frightened me, so horribly, I was terrified it would destroy…and you deserved so much more, I tried, I did, I tried so very hard but it was no use and there was so much else I had to…”

She puts her hand against his mouth and shocks him to silence.

“Stop,” she whispers, “Just stop.” She slowly stands, offers her hand to him. He takes it and she pulls him to his feet, then turns, without a word, and leads him to her bedroom.

He stands just inside the door, watching helplessly as she flicks on the frilly lamp on the nightstand beside the bed, turns and pulls back the coverlet. Her small body fills his sight as if he’s never seen her before. So familiar and yet so different now: her movements are quick and deft, smooth and full of a grace he’s so often taken for granted. Every inch of her is engraved on his vision, etched there with fluid precision and detail.

She finally turns to him and offers her hand again. This time he hesitates for an instant and finally, finally, at long last, recognizes what he has denied so many times in so many other ways.

He is afraid.

He has always been afraid. It came out in his torrent of words to her moments before, and even then he refused to see it. He is terrified, still. As he considers this, the understanding unspools in him, a tightly wound thread he’s kept locked away for so awfully long…and he nearly weeps again with relief.

He walks forward slowly, stands in front of her. Her eyes never leave his face and he’s humbled by her yet again, all the glorious aspects of Molly Hooper right there in her eyes. Trust. Faith. Concern. Caring. Tenderness. All the weaknesses he’s despised in others for so long are Molly Hooper’s strength and fortitude, are what he turns to at last in his fear and need. _The one person who matters most, who’s always mattered most._

He stokes her cheek, brushes his thumb across her mouth, trails a finger down her throat, while she unbuttons his jacket. She slides her hands along the lapels up to his shoulders, pushes the jacket off, lets it drop to the floor. He places a hand on her hip just below her waist, pulls her closer, bends his head and kisses her, lightly, oh so gently, soft pressure. She makes a little noise in her throat. Desire. Hot, sudden. It sweeps through him, his fingers clutch at her waist. She leans against him, whispering, her hands touching here, there, searching, pulling. He clutches her roughly, kisses her, catches her silky baby lips and moans against them as he presses her back towards the bed, tugging and pulling uselessly at her clothes. She finally pushes him away with a small cry. There are tears again on her cheeks as she tugs her tee over her head, shoves her sweats and pants down her legs. 

His breath comes in hitches; hands clench and unclench at his sides. He stares at her naked body, trembling, wanting, not knowing what to do. She moves closer, watches his face. Then slowly, carefully, she begins to undress him. He stares at her face, watches the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathes. He is burning. His skin flames, his blood scalds him. He shivers when she is done, and feels her hands on his body, hears her whispering, murmuring, reassuring, soothing. She pulls him by the hand into the bed, lies down beside him, hands constantly moving, touching, smoothing, cooling the flames into simple warmth. She kisses his face, his throat, and he gradually calms, finds his comfort in his own hands sliding over her satiny skin. When her hands slide down his belly and touch him there, at last, there and there, where he wants her most, he moans and the hot fluid spills out of him, too soon, too soon. His body slackens, his limp hands slipping off her body down to his sides. He feels the hot saline drops slide down his temple as he closes his eyes.

She coos at him, slides her body over his, brushes his hair back from his forehead. "It's okay, it's fine, it's nothing," she whispers over and over, kissing away his tears. After a time, he touches her again, slides his fingers up her back and down again, kneading, feeling, searching. She moves against him, sliding down, finds his nipple. An electric current runs between nipple and groin, and he stirs again. He eases her off him, turns on his side, pulls her close. The smell of her excites him, urges him. He kisses and licks, inhaling her, the unique smell that is hers alone. His fingers and mouth roam her body, and he notes every sigh, every soft moan and exhalation, memorizing it all. He finds his way to her delta, barely brushes the soft hair, tickling. Her legs move apart and he raises himself, moves downward; he wants to see, smell, taste, feel. He pushes her legs apart, slides between them. 

There is wetness there covering the pink flesh. Her vulva is flushed, swollen, pouting out from between her outer lips. He traces the slick contours, barely touching, is rewarded with a small gasp and her legs sliding apart more, affording him a better view, easier access. He slips his hands beneath her thighs and pushes upward, and she bends her legs up towards her chest. The sight of her, open, glistening, is intoxicating. He stares for a few long minutes, thinking he has never seen anything more beautiful. A small impatient murmur pulls his attention back to the business at hand; his penis is heavy, pulsing. He longs to push it into this pink wet warmth, but there is more he needs to do first. He bends his head and touches his tongue to the wetness leaking from her, testing. When he does, the fresh salty sea-taste of her, combined with the sex smell of her cunt makes him groan, and his penis jerks in response. He quickly licks, one long swipe from bottom to top, then pries her lips apart with his fingers, holding her open and fully exposed. He probes with his tongue, touching, experimenting, listening to her responses. She clenches when he licks her there; moans when he touches this little nub of flesh, cries out when he licks it. When she begins moving against his mouth, with small rhythmic cries, her thighs quiver. Now, he thinks, now, and without hesitation climbs over her.

Her hands are thrown back over her head and her face is contorted, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut. For some reason this excites him even more. She opens her eyes then and stares up at him, whispers his name. He reaches down and grasps his penis, guides it into the soft, wet center of her and pushes. She pulses around him, squeezes, releases and suddenly arches up against him. He pushes into her again, and again, as she digs her fingers into the skin of his back, hard, hurting. He cries out as her teeth close on his shoulder and then he is pouring himself into her sweet darkness, spurting into that soft tunnel of flesh, mindlessly spiraling out of himself. He is floating above, watching and feeling at once, his hips jerking as he gushes into her, his head thrown back like a beast, like he is howling...with a final thrust he shudders back into his body, spent, gasping. He eases himself down, slightly to the side, and buries his face in her neck, nuzzling, touching with the tip of his tongue before finally resting his head there. 

She strokes his head, fingers threading through the soft dark curls. She is quiet for a long while, and he drifts, content for the moment, time suspended. When she speaks, her voice is muted, softer than normal, tentative. We could run away, she says, you did it before. We could leave now, tonight, before they know you're gone. He doesn't answer right away. He tries to turn away from it, tries to will away the ache in his chest. He raises his head and looks at her, kisses her forehead, cheeks, mouth. 

"Molly." 

She looks away, refuses to meet his gaze. He holds her head still, lowers his forehead to hers, sighs. She keeps her eyes closed.

"How do I do this? How am I supposed to let go of you now? This is all I've ever wanted. You give it to me and then it's...you're...g-gone..." She gasps, stops, jaw clenched. "I don't understand. Why can't we run? Why can't we just try?" Her body is squirming in distress, her breath coming in gasps.

He holds her, kisses her, lets her rage until she's spent. 

"Molly, Mycroft knows. He knows I've come here. They'll be watching. He's given me this...this one night...It's all he could do. It's not just him this time, it's all of them." She shakes her head, not wanting to listen. "Listen to me. I never would have come if I didn't think you had the strength to bear it. You do. You'll go on and live and be fine and be happy again one day. You'll do it for me. Because it's what I need for you to do. This is all I have, Molly. Please."

She suddenly pushes him away and stalks into the bathroom, flips on the light and closes the door. He sighs, buries his head in his arms. Selfish. Stupid, selfish...I should never have come, I should have left her alone...she would have been better off just hearing about it like everyone else...

He wonders now how he could have thought this was a reasonable thing to do. _Because I didn't want to die without knowing what it was like to be with her_ , he thinks, and nearly groans with frustration.

Water running in the bathroom. Toilet flushing. The door opens, light flicks off. She walks calmly to the bed, crawls in beside him. He turns to her, waits.

"Okay." Her voice is calm, a bit ragged, too soft, but calm. "I love you. Always have. There's never been...never been anyone else for me. Probably never will be." She raises a hand to stop his protesting this last, shaking her head. "Maybe this is...all we have. But it's more than I had before. And now I'll always have..." She stops. Swallows. Breathes. "I can do it. For you." The tears leak out despite her efforts, roll slowly down her face. 

His own tears blind him. He reaches for her, pulls her tightly against him. For a while they are content simply wrapped around each other, tangled together like vines. Gradually their bodies rouse again and they exhaust each other, slipping into sleep just before dawn. An afternoon and a night; the last night of the world.

Morning is silent. Touches, kisses, looks say all that can be said. No goodbye. Never goodbye. 

There is a soft rap at the door midmorning. She opens it to two uniformed guards. Sherlock gazes into her eyes one last time, strokes her hair, kisses her, and is gone. She steels herself for the day, goes about her business. It will be a while before she begins to grieve. 

The ride to the airstrip is mercifully brief. Mycroft sits beside him, silent, inscrutable. John and Mary are waiting by the plane. This time there will be goodbyes. 

  

**Author's Note:**

> The lyrics at the beginning are from the song, "Last Night of the World", by Bruce Cockburn. The chorus is the only relevant part, but the idea wouldn't let go until this little story happened. Ideas are like that: persistent, stubborn, nagging.
> 
> There is now a follow-up to this: The Flame of Hope Among the Hopeless


End file.
